Thursday 24 November 2011 17.00 EST
First published on Thursday 24 November 2011 17.00 EST

It makes perfect sense that the concerts that I have cherished the most are the ones that left me with very distinct memories. They could be subtle or grand, but my recollection of those evenings are split in to specific moments. An entire evening's experience recounted decades later, thanks to one action, one facial expression, or a moment of true, unconscious "aliveness". Good films carry any number of memorable instances – Mr Pink not wanting to tip the waitress in Reservoir Dogs, for example. When I play a concert, I want to create those memories for myself and for the audience. A gig is a collection of powerful moments – each one not more or less important, but unique in its own right. I want people to go home with a story to tell. I want to leave a footprint: in that town, in that audience's mind, on this planet.

So how do you do that at every show? How do you make that night any more memorable than the last, while walking the balance beam that keeps it sincere, honest and in-the-now? After all, the live show is something that has its own structure. People can smell BS, and insincerity is the making of a lame band. Don't just look like a band, just do something amazing. You have to put in the work. I spent the good part of five years bumming around the planet, playing alone to any bar that would have me. I cannot tell you how many times I played solo in the corner of a noisy bar. When you do that, you learn to box and you learn to win. In a way, it's the making of you. If they don't care, how do you make them care? You must learn to command the room. Graciously.

In my band, we talk lot about honesty. Most of the guys I tour with come from an experimental and free-jazz background, which has layers of deep philosophy toward the art of improvisation. To be so ideologically in tune with your instrument that it simply becomes a conduit for you in that moment. To let go. To be unconscious. To listen. To let the music simply travel through you. To get to that place is like being high – you want to be a vessel for the honesty in whatever is going on; on the stage, in the room, in the minds and hearts of everyone involved, in the world at large. If you're playing jazz, there's an open license to "go there". But we don't play jazz in my band – not distinctly, anyhow. The interesting variable is getting to that same head-space within the confines of music that has verses and choruses and lyrics and arranged dynamic shifts. It's a different kind of beast. The difference between reciting a song and living a song.

You have to get vulnerable. It's a scary thing to do, but the payoff is enormous. People get bossed around by the fear. The fear of your vulnerability not being reciprocated. Non-reciprocation can be painful, but giving in to that fear is how we bond as people. That's when we feel faith in humanity. Those warm moments of colour in the tepidness of status-quo life. Whether you're on stage or in the audience, you must channel that fear into something productive, or get rid of it. Have you ever stood at the back of the gig with crossed arms and a neutral expression, constantly under the watchful eye of your own ego, wondering if whatever crappy band is cool enough to show enthusiasm for? I have. Most concert-goers have. It's a tentative way to experience anything. It's like boring sex. If you're worried about being cool, you're not cool, so don't worry about it.

We watch people on a stage. The ones who really blow our minds are the ones who tap in to that carnal part of inspired humanity that allows us to just be alright with each other. The ones who really inspire us are the ones who put down their armour. They get naked with such brilliance that instead of cutting them to bits, everyone in the room wishes they had the balls to get naked, too. They get so vulnerable that we nearly get embarrassed for them, and then it comes around to this whole other thing where we're not embarrassed for them at all, but now we ourselves are embarrassed that we questioned them to begin with.

Perhaps I'm getting off track. What I'm suggesting is that those truly memorable moments of gig beauty can only come at the intersection of vulnerability, honesty and spontaneity. You can't anticipate when they'll happen. You can't expect it to be the same moment every night, and you can't expect you'll be able to reach that place every show. But when it clicks, it's magic. Hell, it might even give you enough steam to get through another long, brutal day of driving around the highways of the world in a tin can on wheels, jabbering on with a handful of well-meaning but ill-prepared journalists every afternoon, rarely eating or sleeping well, loading heavy gear in and out of dingy bars that smell like piss and rewearing your underwear because you haven't had an opportunity for laundry in weeks. Oh, and getting paid nearly nothing to do it. Being on the road is not a logical choice of an occupation when looked at on paper, but neither is being a musician at all – or an artist of any kind for that matter – under the microscope of rationality. But it's a damn fine way to live, and to begin to get to the bottom of just how incredible living can be. For me, it's the beginning of not taking existence for granted. The fact is that, those moments on stage when everything goes right inject enough awesome sauce into one's life to make up for an eternity of predictable financial stability.

In fact, you begin to pity people who can't let go. It's like being in on this amazing secret. You start to live your life moment to moment. You realise that getting vulnerable is a catalyst to having boatloads of memorable moments in your life. You learn that most people will actually meet you there. And you stop caring if they don't. And you learn to disregard people who don't "get it". The good ones will. I want goosebumps as many times as possible, then I want to die gracefully without regret.

Remember that part in Fight Club where Brad Pitt tells Edward Norton that he has to be himself, live honestly in his skin and stop worrying about all the menial crap that has blinded him from the beautiful, chaotic, victorious, intense and dangerous experience of being alive? That was a great moment.

Dan Mangan's album Oh Fortune is released on 5 December on City Slang. He plays Cargo in London on 8 December.